


Safely Delivered

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Minor Canonical Character(s), POV terrier, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Mrs Hudson's terrier from A Study in Scarlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safely Delivered

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #12: Doyle vs. Dogs.  
> Warnings: Dog POV. Character death. My own personal head-canon of Mrs Hudson's background and vaguely related to [Lost Boys](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880102), but you don't need to have read that to read this. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> Text in italics is taken directly from _A Study in Scarlet_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

_"Precisely so," answered Holmes. "Now would you mind going down and fetching that poor little devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain yesterday."_  
  
_I went downstairs and carried the dog upstairs in my arms. Its laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug._  
                --A Study in Scarlet  
  
I have been a most fortunate dog. I know this quite well, from having seen my fellows in parks and on sidewalks, pampered and cared for to varying degrees, but none so well as I; scented the terrible, skeletal creatures who lurked in the shadows, with no one to care for them. Most of all I know this because I know how well I am loved.  
  
Which is why I cannot go, not yet. I am an old dog now, and I long for rest, but I am all Mistress has. I am the only one to guard her, love her, care for her. I am the only bulwark she has against the loneliness that makes her weep sometimes at night, smell sad in the afternoons when something reminds her of Master or My Boy. They are gone now, gone to whatever awaits us on the other side of Death, and I am all that remains.  
  
I miss them too. I remember when the Boy lifted me out of the basket where I wrestled with my litter-mates. I was smaller than most of my brothers and sisters, and not as handsome; but the Boy scooped _me_ up and held me to him as if the others didn’t exist. He smelled so nicely, of active sweat and milk and biscuits and happiness, and he laughed as he held me out to Master and Mistress. I licked his face, and Mistress’ hands, and felt Master scratch me behind the ears. That was the day I became theirs, and they mine; my pack, my Master, my Mistress, my Boy.  
  
That was a good day. There were many, many good days. My Boy played with me every day. My Mistress walked with me in the park, put nice scraps of meat in my bowl every day, and gave me my own basket with a soft, warm blanket. I did not see my Master as often, for he was often gone during the daylight hours. When he came home, however, he always had a kind word for me, and called me Good Dog. And I was. I guarded the house, and Mistress, and My Boy; I chased away the Rats that would have fouled the pantry; I made them safe and happy, as much as any dog can.  
  
But after time, after the good days, I smell something wrong on my Boy’s breath. Sickness. Soon my Boy can no longer run and play, and coughs instead of laughs. I do what I can to comfort him and make him smile. I play silly puppy tricks, though they are far beneath my dignity as a senior dog, and chase the ball that he still had the strength to throw, and lie with him for hours, sharing my warmth, feeling his hands on my fur. I obey every command Mistress gives, and comfort her as much as I can, smelling her fear and worry and feeling it as my own. I help her nurse My Boy, as much as I am able. And I am there with her, when My Boy dies. I cry for him, and for her and Master too.  
  
There are many evenings when I lick away her tears. I would lick them for Master, too, but he never weeps where I can get to him to offer comfort. He shuts himself away in a room and closes the door, always, and will not let me or Mistress see him grieve. But I know. I can smell it, hear his muffled sobs through the wood of the door. Mistress, for all she has no nose like my nose, knows it too, and it only makes her sadder.  
  
I do not smell Death coming for Master as I did for My Boy, but it comes all the same. Perhaps my nose is too dull with age. Or perhaps that Death came like a thief, sneaking up on my Master while he was away during the day. I do not know, but I think it likely, for one day my Master leaves the house in the morning as he always does, but the next time he returns, it is in a box, and he is cold and still, the breath long gone from him.  
  
I cry for him, cold in his box. And the first night after he comes home that way, my Mistress moves my basket into the bedroom. I stay with her that night, and all the nights afterwards, and guard her dreams as best as I might.  
  
They take the box with my Master in it away after a day or two. For a little while, it is just me and my Mistress, and the Servants who creep about and smell almost as unhappy as she. And then things change. Some of the Servants leave, never to return. Men come smelling of wood and glue and iron, bringing boards, and start changing the house, blocking off rooms, putting walls and doors where none had been before. I do not like it. I do not bark and growl at the men, not after my Mistress tells me not to, but I watch them as best as I can with my age-dulled nose and my time-clouded sight. I listen to them banging and smell the strange scents they bring, and I worry how I should ever be able to keep Mistress safe.  
  
These are bad memories, but there are better ones.  
  
The noisy men went away eventually, but now other men have come. My Mistress speaks with them in the room that used to be where my Master and my Mistress would sit in the evenings. It is more crowded now, with furniture that used to be in other rooms crammed into it, but still familiar enough that I do not like smelling others intruding into it. I growl the whole time one is there, for he smells _wrong_. I am grateful when my Mistress sends him away. Others do not provoke such strong reactions in me, but still, I remain watchful. I am all the guard there is.  
  
Two men come to stay in the rooms where I can no longer go, the ones up the staircase that I can no longer climb easily. One is the strangest-smelling man I have ever encountered. He and his clothing constantly smell of different things, half of which I cannot name, and his hands often have funny-coloured splotches on them. He moves like a hunter, always quiet-footed, which alarms me; but he offers my Mistress no threat, and occasionally speaks kindly to me. He never minds when I sniff at his clothing, either; in fact he often offers me interesting bits to smell.  
  
The other man moves hesitantly at first, and also had strange smells on him, but he is unfailingly kind to my Mistress and to me. He comes to visit my Mistress and causes her to smell happier, less lonely. He is also the first to take me on a walk when my Mistress could not do so, the first since my Boy and my Master died. The man walks very slowly and unevenly, but never once yanks on my leash or shows impatience when I stop and smell the news. He offers me words of encouragement when my own stiffened limbs make it difficult to climb the steps in and out of the park.  
  
My mistress is less lonely, now, with the two men to care for and talk to. But still, I do not feel I can go, not until I am sure she is safe, not until I know she will be well.  
  
But oh, my body fails me. I ache all the time now. Smells are dull and faint. My food holds no interest for me, even when my Mistress puts special scraps in my bowl. I try to eat some, to please her, but I know no pleasure in it. Sometimes I can scarcely walk. My Mistress fusses over me, and cries sometimes, and I do my best to comfort her even through my pain.  
  
The two men come to my Mistress’ rooms more often now, and my Mistress regularly goes to theirs, carrying food. She seems happier now that she has two new ones to care for. And the two seem happier, too. The slow-moving one moves better now. He comes several times with a bag in one hand, and tends to me for my Mistress’ sake. Sometimes what he does makes me feel better, at least for a little while. The silent-walking one comes once and makes strange noises with wood and sap-smelling strings. My mistress enjoys it very much and even claps a little when he is done, so I politely wag my tail, although I do not much care for it myself.  
  
It is better now that the two men are here. Now my Mistress’ sadness is mostly for me.  
  
My mistress brings the slow-moving one again, but this time nothing he does helps me. I lick my Mistress’ hands, as I did when I was just a puppy, but cannot rise from my bed. The man speaks quietly with my Mistress, and comforts her when she smells unhappy.  
  
Now the slow-moving one is here once more and speaks with my Mistress. She picks  up my basket with her own two hands, and encourages the slow-moving one to lift me into his arms. He carries me upstairs, my Mistress following, and brings me into one of the new rooms, where I have never been before. She does not come in, but stays in the doorway where I can see her.  
  
There are several men in the room, but it is the silent-footed one who offers me something to drink, a little milk with water. I am thirsty, for I have not had the strength to go to my water-bowl all day. I lap at it.  
  
The men all stare at me, and I wag my tail once, but that is all I can do. Eventually the silent-footed one offers me another dish.  
  
This one is different. It is milk, and water, and something else. Even with my nose nearly useless, I know this is not something I should drink. And yet…  
  
I look to my Mistress, standing unnoticed in the doorway. Her eyes shine with moisture, but I see her nod to me, just once.  
  
And I know that my Mistress is ready.  
  
Gratefully, I lap from the second dish and close my eyes.  
  
_With a perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature's tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning._  
                --A Study in Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 12, 2015


End file.
